Some days it feels crazy that I based a major life decision around being a bit happier. As I walk down a steep, cobbled hill facing the Tagus river, I recall that, the better part of a year ago, I made a snap decision (which had, in truth, been brewing for years) to move to Lisbon. To make my ‘fantasy life’ my real life.

Still. A few years shy of middle age, it’s not the craziest manifestation of that early mid-life crisis energy. It’s not a sports car I can’t afford, or an affair, or God forbid a bad haircut. I moved at a point in my life where I didn’t have all that much to lose by leaving; no dependants, or white picket fence, or relationship to give up. I never imagined myself moving, until – all of a sudden – I did. Yet, if I was writing my life in novel form, this plotline would have felt inevitable.

Here’s where it sounds absurd: I uprooted my life in order to spend a full 10 minutes of my morning fondling the seasonal produce (currently, kiwis) in Pingo Doce, schooled by a motherly Portuguese woman with strong opinions about ripeness. I overhauled my life to go to the beach on a Wednesday, armed with tinfoiled tuna sandwiches and the last 100 pages of my novel (most recently, Nesting by Roisín O’Donnell – divine). I overhauled my life to spend this Easter weekend at my friend’s farm in southern Portugal. I overhauled my life to go a bit slower, to savour this moment where I’m not quite young, not quite old – but armed with the confidence, and life experience, to know a good thing when I see it.

Because what is life for – really – if not for these little moments, and having the capacity to savour them? Why do we pursue anything, if not for the prospect of luxuriating in it for a while, time standing still; that moment of reflection at the top of the hill, looking out at the horizon and thinking: this is the life that I built.

Living here isn’t all custard-yellow buildings and blue skies, however. There are daily hurdles, which I imagine – not having lived in a foreign country before – are shared among expats.

Some observations from my first year of expat life:

You will miss things you don’t expect: A few years ago, a friend moved to the States and became suddenly very British – yearning for Marmite, crumpets etc. Now I get it. In no particular order, I miss Marks & Spencer (particularly the underwear and pyjama sections); Boots; Everyman cinema; jacket potatoes; stand-up comedy; theatre; blonde-roast coffee.

Language learning will not be linear: Some days I wake up thinking in Portuguese, other days I stand in line at my local butcher’s unable to comprehend a word of the animated conversation the women are having in front of me. Yesterday I spent the bulk of the day memorising irregular Portuguese verb conjugations in the past perfect tense, only to baulk at an interaction with a Bershka cashier.

Some things are unexpectedly expensive: Sun cream is double the price. Over-the-counter medicines, like paracetamol, are close to four times the cost in the UK. Oh, and I recently (accidentally) paid over 10 euros for pine nuts. No rhyme or reason. Speaking of which…

You become obsessed with idioms: While I don’t (yet) have many Portuguese friends, I have many expat friends who speak English as a second (or third, or fourth) language. With them, and with my wonderful Portuguese teacher, I suddenly feel like Mary Poppins – pulling out bizarre expressions like ‘Don’t count your chickens…’ and ‘barking up the wrong tree’ like its own niche form of expat Tourette’s.

Visa woes are real, but weirdly bonding: One of my good friends here acted as my ‘D7 Doula’, coaching me through the intricacies of my visa application. It’s easy to dwell on the shitshow of Brexit having happened (and I do, regularly) but equally, the friction associated with staying is something that unites much of the community here, and in a strange way makes me value every moment I get to spend here.

It’s a crash course in friend-making: As I wrote about in a previous post, friend-making is a huge part of expat life. New friendship has opened up avenues and reveals hidden corners of Lisbon life that I never would have stumbled upon alone, no matter how much time I spent wandering the windy, medieval neighbourhood of Alfama. But it has taken time, effort and patience. I’ve never invested more in this skillset than I do now, and I think it puts me in good stead for the future. Equally, one thing I hadn’t expected is how much some of my friendships back ‘home’ – I still call it home, I wonder if and when that will change – in London have flourished. They have held my hand, metaphorically if not literally, as I’ve wandered the city sozinha (on my own), coaching me through the strangeness of this new life. There’s a lot to be said for a phone call.

It’s different to just visiting: Before I moved here, I was in the habit of coming to Lisbon for a handful of weeks, over-indulging in whatever I could and meeting lots of people, but in a surface-level way. Something I’m proud, this past year, is realising the stakes are much higher now that I live here; and stepping up accordingly. Lisbon, as an expat, can feel like a moderate-sized village. I have a reputation to uphold, and it makes me reflect on how I want to show up for present and future friends; what I have to contribute to this community. I have a healthy (ish) lifestyle that sustains me, and I’m protective of that. One of my most salient reasons for moving, in the past, was that I didn’t think living in Lisbon – making it a daily reality – could match how it was to visit. Two months shy of my anniversary, I’ve found that it’s even better.

I’ll start with an admission: I didn’t think I’d get round to writing a newsletter at all this week. But then, as I was walking home from my second Portuguese lesson, an idea started to form in my head; the bud of a conversation I wanted to have with someone, but I didn’t know who to call at 9:23pm on a Wednesday.

And then I got back to my flat here in Lisbon, I looked in the mirror and noticed two small-but-fierce spots that have formed on my chin. And I thought yes, that’s it. That’s the newsletter!

Shall I give context? Fine – I will (as much as a part of me would like to stop there). For once in the history of my skin, these spots are ones that I don’t mind. They’re part of an experiment I’ve been doing recently, which involves using a La Roche-Posay retinol serum once a week.

The strange little spots are an outcome that beauty writers call a ‘retinol purge’. I, on the other hand, am no beauty writer, but in a nutshell here’s what happens: when using products containing retinol, a so-called wonder ingredient, your cell turnover increases. This means your skin apparently gets worse before it gets better, through ‘purging’ all the gunk out in double time. It’s a waiting game, and not a pretty one, I’ll give you that. But a worthy experiment, I think/hope/pray. I think my skin is looking better. And although I douse myself in factor 50 to protect my currently-photosensitive complexion, the sunny horizon is in sight.

I’ve trusted the process, and it’s beginning to work out. Which is a comforting thought to apply to other areas of my life, given that – for various bureaucratic reasons pertaining to visas – I am stuck in mainland Portugal for an indefinite period of time.

There are, frankly, worse places to be stuck. Although the honeymoon period is over with Lisbon, it has developed into something more akin to the first years of marriage, a marriage where I still have pinch-me moments, such as stopping slack-jawed in front of a butter-yellow building with the thought: ‘How is it possible that I live in this heavenly place?’

Still, it’s a strange thought that I can’t just hop on a plane and leave the country. Especially when that country isn’t my country, the United Kingdom, where I lived all my life up until now. And it makes this period of being here very real, in a way all my hot flings with this city over the past few years haven’t been. I’ve got to get a Portuguese SIM card; find a few more friends; make a real stab at living here, for as long as it lasts.

Some of – many of – my happiest memories since 2022 have happened here. And yet I knew it wasn’t going to be like living in Disneyland, as much as some of the buildings in the neighbouring resort town of Sintra fit the Walt Disney bill rather well. And so, I feel like it’s now for the hard part. The part where it gets harder, before it gets better. The moments where I realise just how complex Portuguese is to learn, and remember that friendship is a slow-burn, and wake up in a bit of a slump, and consider questions like, how much friction is too much friction?

Then I tell myself this: that, in my experience, my boldest decisions have always been rewarded. And yet, that gratification is rarely instant. The universe doesn’t owe you a standing ovation for your courage. But you do end up developing a quiet pride in yourself, somewhere along the process. Boldness begets boldness, because hard decisions require you to scrabble about actively justifying them, in a way that you wouldn’t have to if you’d just stayed still.

And that’s what I wanted, from coming here. Not an easy ride, but an interesting one. And so I’m trusting the process, filling my days with novelty, and believing that something good is around the corner.

I’ve been doing a lot of living, lately.

Which might sound like a redundant thing to say – because living is sort of inextricable from being alive, isn’t it?

But what I mean is that I’ve been living predominantly in the present. Not asking myself, how am I going to write about this experience (because I’ve always felt an instinctive binary between living life and writing about life). Not photographing things, to package it up nicely for the Instagram overlord. Not panicking about the minor social faux pas I made last week, or trying to plan an outfit for a social event the week after next. Just… living, day to day, more preoccupied by what I’m doing tonight than the fact I turn a year older in a fortnight.

That said, sometimes you’ve got to honour your future 89-year-old.

I just got back from Seoul, where I travelled for an architecture conference as part of a media trip (and yes, I feel cool writing that sentence).

For various reasons, the period between knowing I was going to South Korea, and boarding a plane to South Korea, was roughly 96 hours. The dates fell over a trip back to the UK, a trip where my chief aim, other than getting my Portuguese visa stamped in my passport, was to go to Marks & Spencer with my mum to buy this olive green cashmere cardigan.

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However, just like my decision to move to Lisbon earlier this year, there are certain times in life where living too doggedly in the present is a mistake. When saying ‘yes’ is something you have to do not just for your current self, but for a projected version of your future self (I’m terming this my future 89-year-old, although if longevity science has its way perhaps by 2078, 89 will be the new 59).

Such was the case here. If I didn’t go to Seoul, that 89-year-old me would be justifiably pissed off. I can imagine her shaking her marble-headed stick at me. Not only has South Korea’s capital been on my bucket list for years, but – for various nerdy reasons I expand on at the bottom of this post – I was desperate to go to this particular conference.

Still, this mindset (serving your 89-year-old) requires checking in with yourself – as it can become a ‘should’. For instance, I suspect it’s the same strain of future projection that makes skydiving so popular. See also swimming with sharks; going on safari; and getting a tattoo (‘I should do this, because when I’m old…). As it stands, I’m happy not to do any of those things. That’s someone else’s future 89-year-old, not mine.

Meanwhile, I just returned from a four-day trip I’ll never forget; inspired and awed. The M&S cardigan is sold out in my size. But only one of those statements will matter when I’m 89.

One last thing

As mentioned, my trip to Seoul was to attend the Emotional City conference at the Seoul Biennale of Architecture & Urbanism.

I won’t say too much about this here, because you likely don’t subscribe for long essays about architecture (I write these elsewhere), but the conference was dedicated to Humanise, a movement begun by Thomas Heatherwick, of Heatherwick Studio, to champion built design that promotes people’s wellbeing. Believe it or not, this isn’t a given in architecture – although that’s changing. And the conference guest list – which included everyone from researchers to artists and city planners – reflected that.

Humanise promotes architecture that is built for your average person (i.e. someone non-visual-arts trained, or a stakeholder), rather than for the aims of a private developer, government authority or the architect themselves. Which, as an average person obsessed with architecture, is a movement I can get behind. It combines all the things I’m personally curious about (wellness, architecture, psychology, and the emerging discipline of neuroarchitecture).

If this intrigues you too, do check out the work of Humanise, together with Project Why at HKS and this Wallpaper write-up on the Biennale which includes an interview with Thomas Heatherwick himself.

I spent 2023 trying, and failing, to go upside down.

Every Saturday, come rain or shine, I would wake up at 6:50am for a yoga inversions class in Camden. By 8am I’d be gathered among a motley crew of handstanders and wannabe handstanders, ready for 75 minutes’ worth of drills, usually involving a wall and/or a brave partner.

At first, I embraced the challenge. I’d watch the teacher, who specialised in calisthenics and gymnastics, contort himself into various shapes, his body and limbs for the most part suspended in the air, and I’d think: that’s going to be me someday! I drank up his encouraging words, and the morale of my fellow classmates. I tried, and tried, and tried.

A year in, I realised I was going to sleep every Friday night dreading the class.

It wasn’t just the physical challenge. There would be kicks in the face (you would kick, and be kicked; it was inevitable). There would be strength limitations, your shoulders, fingers and palms pleading mercy as you put more and more weight into them, hoping for that eureka moment where you’d kick up and fly!

But none of that compared to the mental exhaustion of the boxing match I’d have with my inner critic. Because, a year in, all I could hear was the should of, I’ve been coming to this class for a year, I should be better at this. Why haven’t I progressed more? Why am I not stronger, more motivated? I was, probably, making some progress; at least the teacher reassured me that that was the case. But, mentally, it made me feel weaker and weaker – and, believe it or not, that wasn’t helping me go upside down.

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As a one-off, I switched my Saturday morning class to the all-levels vinyasa class that took place next door, at 8:30am. Then I kept going, and I never looked back. And then I tried not to be ashamed when, inevitably, I’d bump into my old teacher.

Because it wasn’t his fault that I hadn’t managed it; and it wasn’t mine, either.

It just wasn’t my time.

Before moving to Lisbon, I felt like I was up against a clock in several areas of my life: romantically, professionally, biologically. I know that’s a cliche – and likely the product, at least in part, of internalised misogyny – but that feeling was a reality. It created a low-level panic in me. I felt my future was out of my control.

My handstand goal was supposed to be the antithesis to that. There were many things I couldn’t make work, but this one – I told myself – I could, with enough time and energy.

Plus, let’s face it, it would make me feel like a superhero.

When I paused my handstand goal, I felt like a loser. That shame lasted for months. Two years on, I think of leaving that class as a sign of strength. A willingness to adapt. To temper the harsh expectations I was putting on myself. To fall back in love with yoga (as I have done, since).

And besides, there will be time. That’s a phrase I seem to be telling myself a lot lately, and believing it. It helps that I don’t feel as much time pressure anymore. That’s partly down to becoming part of an expat community where the age range, and more crucially array of life choices, is broader than what I was used to in London.

But it’s also due to a feeling of general openness to what’s ahead. A willingness to try and experiment with things, and to make that process of trying a two-way street. If it feeds (inspires, excites) me, I will continue. If it doesn’t, then why self-flagellate, as I did with that class for months?

It feels counterintuitive to think of a goal as something that should be held lightly. And yet, that’s what I want to do – not just with the yoga handstands, but with all the things I wanted back in my London life.

I don’t want to thrash against the tide of what’s not-working. That’s not the same as giving up too easily (or whatever harsh thing I told myself I was doing in 2023). That’s trusting my intuition. It’s allowing goals to be a guiding light; not a should-stick to beat myself with.

One of my favourite things about yoga is its age diversity. Sure, I get the appeal of things like CrossFit (the endorphin high, the possibility of meeting a fellow tight-abbed significant other). But yoga is something I can do with both my mother, and my 20-month-old niece. It’s something I hope to do well into my eighties.

The good news, with respect to my handstands goal, is that age doesn’t really come into it.

From the perspective of this class cohort, at least, people’s age (and body type, it’s worth mentioning) had absolutely no correlation with who could, and couldn’t, do a handstand. As far as I could tell, it was entirely arbitrary. The athletic-looking 6’4” bloke (whom I later learnt was a former model) in his thirties was far, far behind the heavy-set bloke in his early sixties, who could hold himself upside down with ease.

Perhaps the one thing that differentiated those handstanders was that they had mastered their inner critic better than I. And perhaps that’s easier to do in one’s sixties, than in one’s thirties. Equally, perhaps those who rock up to an inversions class at 60+ are those who tell themselves exactly what I’m learning right now: that our life goals have no expiration date.

That doing a handstand (or publishing a novel, or buying a house, or settling down, or starting a family) are things I might do in the next five, or ten, years – or not. My instincts will guide me, as I go.

Or maybe I’ll be a handstanding octogenarian. Watch this space.

Since I’ve been staying here in Lisbon, I’ve been taking an approach to life that is uncharacteristic – of myself, and quite likely most successful people I know: I’ve been taking it day by day.

Yes, there is some degree of planning ahead, like when I arranged to stay here a month longer (not least because of the several of you who commented on my last essay, urging me to do so). But for the most part, I’ve been taking a holiday from the habit that’s characterised my last decade: forecasting into the near future, living my life with one foot raised in motion, squinting towards the horizon.

I’ve been so used to pursuing goals. Goals that – I told myself – my happiness was contingent upon. Making more friends. The relationship that eludes me. The second book. The shiny commission. The doubling, tripling of followers, podcast listeners, newsletter subscribers, daily word counts – all the metrics that could prove my life to be a successful one.

But the thing is, I don’t seem to care about those things right now. And I can’t necessarily articulate why that is. My brain feels slower since I’ve been away, a reality that makes me think it’s a shame that we sometimes call someone ‘slow’ as an insult, when really having a slow brain feels quite pleasant. My slower brain is more creative, more receptive to ideas (I’ve started pitching freelance journalism features again, off the back of all the new things I’m suddenly curious about), and more able to take pleasure in everyday joys.

Earlier, I used the word ‘holiday’, but this technically isn’t one. I’ve worked almost every day I’ve been here, based at the bright yellow co-working space that forms the infrastructure to my social life here. It has, however, been a break from the life that, back home in London, I’ve been failing to make a success of (again, by my own very narrow metrics).

We’ve lost the art of being lost, said my friend Iva to me one lunchtime. Which I liked, and later wrote down. Because I’d never heard it phrased like that (Iva phrases things so beautifully). Lost, much like slow, is one of those words that’s used mostly pejoratively. Could we reframe it as an ‘art’, instead?

I’ve felt lost for a while now. But maybe I can make it an art, rather than a stick to beat myself with! After all, there are different ways to be lost: you can be stock-still, or you can be in motion, getting arguably more lost, but still discovering new information all the while – even if that’s confirming the directions you don’t want to go in.

For the past fortnight, at least, I’ve been the latter kind of lost. Without tangible goals, but moving ahead in spite of it, in a way that feels good in the moment rather than serving my future self.

Rather than clinging tightly to that joy, I’ve instead maintained a loose grip. It reminds me of that William Blake poem: He who binds to himself a joy/ Does the wingéd life destroy/ But he who kisses the joy as it flies/ Lives in eternity's sun rise.

And that feels comfortable and rewarding, in a way that trying too hard (and yet, coming up against a brick wall time and time again) has not felt.

If there’s an art to being lost, I’m cultivating it.

First thing’s first: my podcast Alonement, an interview show about alone time and why it matters to my guests, has returned with Season 10. It was an honour to have award-winning comedian/proud self-proclaimed cat lady Katie Norris as my first guest. You can listen now on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts – and please do leave a review because occasionally I really care about that kind of thing late at night (plus it helps us get discovered, etc etc).

Now! Hello from Lisbon, the hot affair I’ve been coming back to since October 2022, the month I published my first issue of The Shoulds. Since then, I’ve done five long stints here, stretching my visa-free Schengen allowance to the limit. Schengen aside, I’m lucky enough to be able to work mostly remotely. I’m also lucky that my close friend and fellow Substacker , lives here and has welcomed me into the expat community she’s built over the past five years, since she was brave enough to move here during the pandemic.

On the subject of bravery, Lisbon is where I come when I want permission to live the way I want. I take professional risks: I started the newsletter here, I started writing fiction here, and this time around I was here as I hit the ‘Publish’ button on Season 10 of my podcast Alonement. I dress in brighter colours and show more skin. I go to in-person writing mornings at a local bookshop. I do more yoga. I comfort-eat less (and possibly drink more wine, but it’s hard not to when it’s €3-4 a glass). I’m funnier, I think – or at least I make the jokes I usually make in my head outside of my head. And I’m calmer, because it’s hard not to be when the pace of the city, paved with slippery calçada tiles, dictates that you slow down.

What am I doing here? Simply put, I’m cheating on London. I think it’s just a fling, a hot affair, but I can’t be certain yet. If I’m honest, I’ve felt stagnant recently, in my 20-year-long marriage with my beloved home city. I love it, but it feels like, for so long, I’ve been waiting for something to happen that never bloody does. The professional high, the whirlwind romance, the creative epiphany or the cosy, content life that eludes me. In London, I feel abnormal; existentially burnt out by never having a good answer to ‘Are you seeing anybody?’ and ‘What do you do?’ and (excruciatingly, more than once) ‘Who’s your crew?’

I’m simultaneously enjoying the social buzz, and the downtime, here. I’ve met more people in the past week here than I have in the past six months in London, and I make friends with people I would never have encountered. My inner extrovert is getting fed, on a holiday diet of mostly-new acquaintances. I miss my other close friends and family (by whom I feel deeply known and loved), but I haven’t feasted on newness in a while, and it’s exciting.

I love walking around, the sun on my skin, bats (yes bats!) flying overhead the park near where I’m staying, and strolls along the riverfront near my workspace. Reading on the beach, mooching around the weird-and-wonderful Pingo Doce supermarket, solo brunches in hipper-than-hip Brazilian-owned cafes; it’s alonement, abroad.

And I feel lonely sometimes. Probably more lonely than in London, where my loved ones live and where I’ve formed cosy rituals and communities that mean I know exactly when, and what, I’m being ‘fed’ socially. Plans in the diary; one of my favourite love languages, and a shared one among my friends and I back in London. Here, plans happen more spontaneously; and that’s a mixed blessing.

So yes, the loneliness happens. Yet it feels like less of a personal failing to be lonely as a foreigner in a foreign land, than it does back home. And it feels less scary, knowing I’m one of the foreigners – not one of the people who really should have it sorted by now (i.e. a Londoner in London). Loneliness feels more like an opportunity. More like something I should pay attention to, and follow the trail of. Like, what flavour of lonely am I feeling today, and how might I satiate it: community, intimate conversation, romance? Where could my loneliness lead me, where I wouldn’t have gone in my comfort zone of London?

On the romance front… Being single is easier here, too, because it doesn’t feel abnormal. I’m tired of being defined by what a podcast guest on my latest series called the ‘single at wedding years’. I’m so, so tired of app dating. I’ve reached the point, after a fair investment in cognitive behavioural therapy and a lot of yoga, where I no longer believe I’m unlovable; I genuinely just haven’t met the right person. And it will happen. But God, I don’t need to be reassured of that, unsolicited, at parties anymore – parties where there’s no one to flirt with, because everyone’s taken.

I’m at a time in my life where I could be blossoming, but there’s nowhere to grow. I’m more confident and sure of myself than ever, but what to do with that? With my London lifestyle as it is, it’s hard to be a main character – more a supporting one, at the celebrations of the things I should be doing, but am not: weddings, baby showers, housewarmings. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve built a life I love in London, in so many ways. I am so lucky to have it. And yet here I am, cheating on it outrageously and telling you all about it.

Perhaps the flame of being here will burn out, and I’ll start craving home again. Maybe absence is what my heart needs, to make it fonder. To spice up my relationship with London, the cool, cosmopolitan capital city of opportunities that I’ve lived in, and loved, since I was 13 (and loved from afar before that, while growing up in Liverpool). Perhaps it won’t, and I’ll have to make some tough decisions; or at least learn more than five words of Portuguese (my latest, incidentally, is insaciável, which means ‘insatiable’. Read into that what you will).

Does my life belong in Lisbon – or is this just escapism, an emotional and spiritual affair, as it has proved for years? Did I just need this break from London, to appreciate what I have there – and then bring back elements of the lifestyle I enjoy so much here, in my already-stuffed suitcase?

I don’t know. Which feels like a strange thing to admit to the thousands of you who so kindly subscribe to this newsletter, and read it every week, but I hope this particularly honest (and, I must say, off-the-cuff) dispatch at least resonates with some of you. Because we’re all a bit lost sometimes, and if there’s a catharsis for me, in admitting that on the page, then I trust there’s also a catharsis in reading about it. And perhaps it is being here that allows me to exhale to this degree, and write this all out. Again, I don’t know. And, if you’re reading this, I’m glad of your company amid the not-knowing.

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Olá, pals! I’m writing this during a 36-hour stop-off in London, as I pack for a trip to Lisbon tomorrow. I’m downsizing the XL luggage I took to Madeira – where I was until yesterday – to a somewhat ambitious carry-on sized case for my 16 day stint in the Portuguese capital. A valuable exercise in minimalism, or a soon-to-be regret? The jury is out, as is most of my footwear.

Anyway, this is all a preamble to say that I haven’t got time to write a whole new post this week. Instead, I’ve lifted the paywall on one of my most-read posts of last year – all about the subject that is envy. Or, indeed, jealousy.

Which is a taboo subject, but one that might resonate with you if you’ve, say, spent your morning hearing about your infinitely more successful pal’s success. Or if you, say, visited your parents’ house recently, to learn that their miniature dachshund has territorially-pissed on your bed to show you how the pecking order goes, and then you stumble across one too many snaps from that glossy garden party everyone but you seems to have bagged an invite to.

So! You feel that pang of jealousy. Or is it envy? Well…

Envy and jealousy are words often used interchangeably: I’m envious of this, they’re jealous of that. But actually, there’s a subtle yet important distinction that I was unaware of when I first wrote this essay. A distinction I discovered precisely ten minutes ago, in fact. Here, according to the LanguageTool blog, is the difference between envy and jealousy (I’ve paraphrased):

Envy is what you want what someone has – as simple as that. Whereas, jealousy is when someone else gains something (e.g. an object, a relationship) that makes you feel threatened, or insecure, without necessarily wanting that thing for yourself.

For instance, maybe you feel envious of someone’s new two-bed maisonette in Maida Vale, because you wish you lived there. Yet you’re jealous of your friend’s new attached-at-the-hip partner Paul, even if you don’t find Paul attractive and wouldn’t snog him in a million years – because it’s not about wanting what your friend has (i.e. the specific partner), it’s about feeling jealous, perhaps irrationally, that Paul could replace you in your friend’s life.

Presumably, if you just find Paul smoking hot, and don’t actually miss your supposed pal, it could just be straightforward envy again. But you get the picture. And if you don’t, here’s another snippet straight from the horse’s (LanguageTool’s) mouth.

All of this is yet another preamble to say…

I WAS WRONG!

Yes, wrong! When I first wrote the original version of this post, originally published in May 2024, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! (Isn’t it life-affirming to be wrong? It proves that every day does, in fact, have the potential to be a school day; that you never know what wrongness might be around the corner, waiting to teach you a lesson!)

Here’s why I was wrong: in the original version of the essay, I focused on envy, and the interrelated emotions it can evoke (e.g. fear and insecurity). But my terminology was off, because I was actually referring to envy’s more complex cousin, jealousy.

And so, because I’m all out of preambles, here’s that (now lightly-edited) post from May 2024. I hope you enjoy reading it, if you didn’t get a chance the first time round. And if you did – do leave me a comment and let me know (or just click the heart button for my self esteem, or best of all invite me to a goddamn garden party!)

Happy for you, sad for me: When hearing other people’s good news is challenging

Lately, I’m seeing a lot about envy jealousy. Inside Out 2 introduces a new emotion/character, Envy, voiced by The Bear’s Ayo Edebiri. In Louis Theroux’s interview with Adam Buxton this week, the old friends discuss podcast rivalry (including their own). ’s newsletter explores what she terms ‘green slime feelings’.

In recent years, there’s been Self Esteem’s hit song ‘I Do This All The Time’, which contains the memorable lyric: ‘The best night of your life was the absolute worst of mine’. Envy and jealousy feature in millennial memoirs: in Everything I Know About Love, Dolly Alderton writes about her struggle to cope with her best friend Farly’s engagement, while in The Panic Years, Nell Frizzell shares her ambivalence towards her friend’s pregnancy announcement, at a time when she wanted to start her own family:

And yet (screechy handbrake turn), envy jealousy is not what I want to discuss here. At least, not directly. Instead, I want to explore an emotion that often gets confused with envy [again, JEALOUSY!]. One which it took me years to unpack.

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That emotion is fear. Specifically, the flavours of fear that come after hearing other people’s good news.

Your thirties: All about the good news

One thing you receive a lot of, in your thirties, is other people’s good news. It’s a bit like that nursery rhyme: first comes the love, then comes the marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage, but make the baby carriage a two-bed in zone 7.

Statistically, it’s all happening in this decade; the socially-agreed upon milestones that constitute ‘good news’. The average age of a first time home buyer is 37 (38 in London); the average age of a first marriage is 30.6 for a woman (32.1 for men); and the average age for a first-time mother is 30.9 (33.7 for men). The average age for a PhD recipient is 31. You may well be approaching your peak salary, too, with one analysis finding women earn the most aged 40 (four years later for men) – so it’s likely the decade of impressive promotions.

What I’m getting at here, besides showing off my Big Data Energy, is that, from your thirties onwards, you’ll find yourself hearing about other people’s successes constantly, in a way you probably didn’t earlier on in adulthood, when everyone was immersed in housemate hell, hangovers and early-career Hunger Games.

The thing that feels ugly to admit? Sometimes, hearing other people’s good news is hard. You might want to be 100 per cent happy for your friend. You might be, hand on heart, between 70 and (on a really altruistic day) 90 per cent happy for them. But still, intermingled with that, there’s something… icky.

Now, if we were to use Occam’s razor (The simplest answer is usually the right one), identifying that ickiness is straightforward. Envy is defined as a ‘wish that you had something that another person has’. So, if your friend achieves something that, we’ve agreed upon as a society, is aspirational, and you do not have it, then you, my friend, are a jealous bitch. Go to jail and do not pass go!

And yet, I’ve surprised even myself with the degree of freudenfreude (a lesser-known German word for ‘happiness in other people’s happiness’) I’ve felt in my thirties, as loved ones have got married, had career success, purchased homes etc. I want these things to work out for them, and I find myself invested to the degree that I cried when one friend broke up with a long-term partner. Another time, I woke up in a cold sweat after a nightmare that a family member and her partner split. I found myself deflated when a friend’s house purchase fell through. I know this sounds weird, or virtue-signalling, or whatever, but it is the reality. I want good things for my friends.

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Perhaps it’s because I’m generally happy with my lot, which is largely down to privilege but also the fact I tend towards intrinsic, as opposed to extrinsic, motivation. In Gretchen Rubin’s Four Tendencies personality framework, I came out as a Questioner. This means I’m led by my own expectations of myself, rather than other people’s. Take, for instance, having children. A good few friends and close family members have become first-time parents over the past year. It would make no sense for me to envy them, because that’s not what’s right for me at this moment in my life.

But back to fear. If the unwelcome ‘ickiness’ I sometimes experience in response to other people’s good news isn’t (necessarily) envy, then what is it? Having reflected on this question over the past couple of years, I’ve realised it’s generally one of three things (or a combination thereof):

1. Feeling invalidated

‘If they do [insert lifestyle choice that’s different to mine], that means my lifestyle is inferior.’ I have a close friend who was once so similar to me, on paper (age, background, appearance, career, relationship history) that we had a long-running joke where we combined our names into one terrible portmanteau. A year ago, in the space of a few months, she met her now-husband and started a family. It was a ballsy, life-defining decision – and one she’s found a lot of happiness in. And I was happy for her. Yet, I won’t deny it made me panic, for a while, about my own choices. Our friendship, up until then, was a staple of my identity, amplifying the joys of the lifestyle we long shared. I had to recalibrate: finding other friends who shared my lifestyle, and finding a stronger conviction within myself. I learnt that she and I could still thrive simultaneously – just, this time, in very different ways.

2. A scarcity mindset

‘If they have [insert aspirational thing], I will never get it.' Honestly, I think this is worse for women – and this ELLE feature agrees. After all, wedding bouquet throwing is still a thing. In a world where we’re conditioned to think otherwise, I find peace in reminding myself: Her success is not your failure.

3. Abandonment issues

‘If they do X/Y/Z, they won’t want me in their lives anymore.’ For instance, if a friend moves in with their partner on the other side of town, you might worry that means you’ll spend less time together. This might also be the case if a friend becomes a new parent. What I’ve found is you can’t predict when people drop in, or out, of your life: it might be a new baby, it might be an all-consuming job. Some changes might bring you closer, rather than further apart. What I have found is some creativity, and flexibility, go a long way in making friendship work when your lives look really different.

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At the core of these reactions, there is fear. Not envy [/jealousy], fear. Fear of not being enough; fear that there’s not enough; fear of being abandoned.

And that’s OK. Change is scary. That’s true of both your own changes, and other people’s. And yet, friendship isn’t a commitment to stay the same. OK, some are (which is why we have the phrase, ‘a friend for a reason, for a season, or a lifetime’). Yet, long-term friendship is an arrangement which involves navigating life’s ups and downs together. In ways which might drive you apart but, equally, might take you down all sorts of paths that, sitting in a back garden somewhere in 40 years, you look back and marvel at.

The ironic thing about other people’s good news? It’s often just as complex as your reaction. While socially-celebrated, relationships, babies, new jobs are all difficult challenge to embark upon, even when everything seems to be going right. As much as it might sound like a humble brag, weddings are stressful to plan, ditto home renovations. If you receive someone’s good news and you’re struggling with envy, fear or any related emotions, they’re probably recalibrating in their own way – and will, odds are, value your support and fresh perspective. You only have to remain close in order to learn that. 

Until next week (from Lisbon!),

Francesca

A quick bit of housekeeping: our next Guided Journaling workshop is coming up this Saturday at 12pm. Fancy joining? Head to the event page for more details and to RSVP.

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I began this year with a plan. An elaborate, handwritten one, as it happens – that’s what spending the New Year period at a yoga retreat will do to you – with goals around my career, relationships and wellbeing. Oh, the hopefulness of yore, and a seven-day digital detox.

We’re currently six months into 2025. If you’d like me to report back objectively, I’d say that some goals have already worked out wonderfully. Others… well, six months to go lads, I’m working on it.

On the other hand, if my inner critic were to seize the mic, it would be a different story. I’d fixate on the goals that haven’t worked out (yet! My inner hope cries out in retaliation). I might deem myself a failure, or berate myself for the foolishness, the blind arrogance, the hubris of having made a plan in the first place. Because to make a plan is to, quite literally, set yourself up for failure.

Or else, I might call myself out for the perpetual crime of not living intentionally enough. Of not carpe-ing the diem out of my allocated 24 hours. Of getting caught up in other things, and losing sight of the masterplan.

What actually is intentional living?

Intentional living is a phrase that entered the zeitgeist a couple of years ago, and now suddenly it’s everywhere: wellness retreats, therapy blogs; life coaches’ extended job descriptions, even urban planning. This April, it was crystallised into our vernacular by the Duchess of Sussex. In a manifesto for her lifestyle brand, As Ever, she announced: ‘The collection is infused with joy, love, and a touch of whimsy. Thoughtfully curated, As Ever celebrates intentional living.’

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Intentional living, according to Psych Daily, is defined as: ‘Living with intention, and based on your core beliefs’. And it’s not without its limitations.

Because, in a world of manifesting and mood boards; apps that promise everything from customised ramen to the match of your dreams; accountability buddies; and, yes, buzzwords and phrases like alignment, intentional living and conscious choices, there’s a danger of feeling like you’re a failure for your life not going exactly how you planned it.

You’re just not living intentionally enough.

Get your shit together.

MAKE A PLAN.

Intentional living has become a big, fat Should. Which is why it might surprise you to learn that, in spite of that, I’m with Meghan Markle on this one.

In defence of living intentionally

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Thanks to everyone who took part in The Shoulds’ first survey! I’m absolutely touched by how many of you got in touch to let me know what you loved, and would love to see more of, from the newsletter. And congratulations to reader Steph, who won the competition to receive a one-year paid subscription.

On a separate note, our second instalment of Guided Journaling with The Shoulds – a one-hour virtual journaling workshop led by yours truly – is coming up! Details at the bottom of this email.

It’s asparagus season at the moment. Until this year, I never knew how much joy it could bring.

This realisation began a couple of weeks ago, over dinner with a friend. We ordered, at her suggestion, a plateful of thick, verdant spears, cooked al dente and eaten al fresco, on a warm-ish evening – enjoyed as a side to twin massive plates of crab linguine, and quite a lot of wine. Then it was a fistful bought from a Carrefour in Nice, and sautéed in a large saucepan at our AirBnB. Recently, I’ve been eating asparagus at every opportunity: tossed in oil in the air fryer, wrapped up in a buttery Hampstead crepe, as a starter at family Friday night dinner (thanks Mum).

Before this year, asparagus barely registered on my vegetable radar – and that’s because I never paid attention to its seasonality. How, in the relatively short period between late April and mid-June, asparagus has its annual glow-up, transforming from a neglected member of the vegetable aisle to a flavoursome, versatile, joy-giving staple. Then, as soon as it begins, that magic is gone for the best part of a year.

Asparagus season comes to an end soon. I’m already anticipating the disappointment of seeing those limp, pale stems take the place of the juicy, bright in-season variety. Yet, as a fledgling asparagus lover, there’s a consolation: because now, every year, I have another thing to look forward. And really, what greater joy is there in life than looking forward to something?

It’s the same way I feel about daffodils, one of my favourite flowers, which emerge in British supermarkets in February – sometimes as early as late January – until early May. Knowing daffodil season is on the horizon, the first two months of the year – a bleak old time to be here in the UK – feel a lot brighter. Spring might not be right around the corner – but somehow these sunshine-coloured trumpets abound even in minus degree temperatures. It’s the best kind of looking forward to something, in fact, because it’s guaranteed to happen. People may come and go, places may change, but the daffodils will be in season again and somehow, in the age of everything-inflation, they’re still a quid from Tesco Express.

You know that saying about worry: that when you worry about something, it means you suffer twice? The reverse can be true, of looking forward to things. At least, in the best case scenario. First, there’s the anticipation, which generates positive feelings – excitement, hope – before anything good has even happened. This sensation was recently coined forestalgia – let’s put aside that this was by a marketing study, and not a group of psychologists – i.e. the opposite to nostalgia.

The forestalgic among us hope that the ensuing reality mirrors the expectation, at least to some degree. That achieving the professional milestone will feel as good as we think it will; that the wedding day will go mostly to plan; that seeing Taylor Swift live in concert will be worth that £206 ticket price. Thus, the forestalgia effect is compounded, the joy of anticipation blending seamlessly into the joy of actual experience.

Oftentimes, the reality is otherwise. Sometimes, the publication day is an anticlimax, the dreamboat turns out to be a footnote, or the stage is obscured by an undeclared-on-the-resale-site pillar. Such is life. But should that detract from looking forward to something? Should you feel foolish and naïve, for getting hyped up about it in the first place?

I used to think so. Every cancelled date, or holiday plan that fell apart, or night out-turned-nightmare, a voice in my head would whisper, you idiot. You shouldn’t have got so over-excited and put expectations on things. It felt childish to daydream about the near-future, the way I once spent every Maths lesson: in a heady fantasy that dwarfed any potential reality. It felt shameful. ‘I don’t want to get my hopes up,’ people often say, echoing this sentiment.

‘You like having something to look forward to,’ someone close to me once said. It was stated neutrally, factually – but it’s always stuck with me. My relationship with that statement has changed, from one of ambivalence to one of pride. Because I do like to look forward to things. And isn’t that a good thing?

That child-like anticipation doesn’t come as easily as it used to. I’m not trying to sound like a jaded 103-year-old here; it’s more the opposite. At my current life stage, I’ve exhausted most of the ‘firsts’ available to me: I’ve been to enough parties, kissed enough handsome strangers, travelled to enough new places.*

The other kinds of anticipation – of watching children grow up, or getting married, or reaching the pinnacle of my writing career, or cultivating my first vegetable garden – feel a little remote and/or abstract right now. At least, that’s how I feel in my lost moments.

Still, I like to look forward to things. And I like to create situations where that can happen. It’s why I don’t quite understand the hype around ‘spontaneous’ travel. I’m a remote-working freelancer without dependants – I could hop on a plane to nowhere tomorrow. But then why would I do that, and rid myself of the joy of anticipating it for a month or two? Will I pack for said holiday in advance? Absolutely not. But I’ll be in a much better mood in the weeks leading up to it.

Holidaymakers are significantly happier in the fortnight leading up to their holidays, compared to those not going on holiday. That’s a stat I used about a decade ago in a magazine feature, and still quote back to people regularly – as if I need science to explain myself.

*actually, I lied; I would like to be invited to some more fabulous parties, preferably in exotic locations with handsome strangers.

Forestalgia, I’ve decided, is a win-win scenario.

Events live a half-life in my head. And sometimes, if I’m disappointed by the reality, I’m still glad of that period of anticipation. Take, for instance, Greta Gerwig’s Barbie. I read that the marketing budget was $150 million – $5 million more than the film cost to make. Now, I didn’t love Barbie as much as I’d hoped. But the months I spent anticipating it, reading every bit of press there was to read and listening to ‘I’m Just Ken’ on repeat? Magical. It was the same story for the Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown: I got chills the first, and second, and maybe third time I watched the trailer. I loved looking forward to these films, and even though the reality didn’t live up to that anticipation, it was still pretty good.

Of course, it’s different when it comes to situations involving others – when there’s ego involved, and the disappointment of the plan going haywire, or not happening at all, gets intermingled with feelings of insecurity or unworthiness. I’m lucky enough to have close relationships in my life where I know the forestalgia is mutual, and that only extreme circumstances will stop us from coming together.

I’ve also learnt to avoid dynamics where plans are frequently cancelled, or it’s unclear whether they will happen or not. For some people, and at some life stages, that arrangement is perfect – but for me? My inner child got her hopes up!

Because looking forward to things is child-like, in the best way. We should treat that instinct with tenderness, rather than shame. Even if the future does look different to our fantasy, it might be just as good – just in an alternative way. The key is to hold it gently. To indulge in the fantasy, then be receptive to the reality. And if you need certainty, amid the chaos? There’s always asparagus season.

Until next week!

Francesca

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Guided Journaling with The Shoulds - Saturday 7 June - 12pm

As we reach the halfway point of the year, this virtual session will be a chance to reflect and look forward to the next six months ahead – I love running these journaling sessions, and hanging out as a community online.

To keep these workshops intimate and interactive, these are limited to paid subs. If that’s not you yet, upgrade your subscription today and receive this + all the added subscriber perks (paid written content, online events, recommendations, interviews etc!)

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We’ve all been there. The short, sharp shock of a No or We regret to inform you… or I can’t do this. The crisis that prompts a handbrake turn: turning your life in an unfamiliar direction, the road ahead barren and uninspiring, the horizon hopeless, in the face of what you’ve lost.

I’ve known that feeling. The breakdown of romantic relationships and would-be relationships (and the fantasies of said relationships I’d built up in my head); the loss of freelance jobs I structured my weeks around; the pile-up of rejected pitches synonymous with life as a journalist. The abrupt ending of a close friendship with someone I once spent endless hours on the phone to.

After each of these things happened, a void opened up.

I’m putting it abstractly – a void – but what are we actually talking about here? The 168 hours that make up our weeks. The square footage of our homes. The limited capacity of our conscious working memories (where we can hold between four to seven pieces of information at a time, depending on which scientist you speak to). The finite number of meaningful relationships we can nurture at one time. Our time, our attention.

When an unexpected chunk of that resource comes back to you, unaccounted for, it prompts the question: what could I devote it to? Exciting, right…? (Right?!)

Encountering the void, excitement tends to be the last thing on my mind. There are versions of my life that might have existed if everything had gone ‘right’ – and I cling to them most tightly when things go tits up.

I think about my fantasy self. She has boundless confidence, because she knows from experience that if you try, you will succeed! She had a plan; the plan succeeded; and now her life rests peacefully on the rock-solid foundation of all the good decisions she made.

Except life – real life – is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. One road inevitably leads to another, even if it’s not the one you expected to take. I’ve seen it with my friends: redundancies or break-ups which inevitably turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to them. I reassure them, prematurely, that this will be the case. Meanwhile, I struggle to give the same compassion to myself.

And yet, and yet…

Over the past two years, most of the joy and novelty in my life has come, indirectly, from a feeling of loss or absence. The creative writing group I joined when I realised that writing fiction in isolation wasn’t working. The local community book club I started in response to loneliness. The friendships I made when others faded. All the sources of love I’ve learnt to pay attention to in the absence of the romantic relationship I once imagined would fulfil all my needs.

A void is also a window. The plot thickens; the stakes are raised; a heightened creativity is demanded by the open-ended ‘What next?’ Experience has taught me the hard lesson that I only have so much control. Equally, I don’t know what I don’t know. What I perceived as a void is, simultaneously, a window to something special.

I discovered a new podcast this week: 60 Songs That Explain the ‘90s. I say new – it’s actually been going strong since 2022, yet it was delivered to me afresh by Spotify’s algorithm, so I’m now working through it chronologically like a syllabus.

Although I am a ‘90s child, some of the earlier songs passed me by: like ‘Hey Jealousy’ by the Gin Blossoms released in 1992, when I was just one year old.

Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about this one lyric:

Change is inevitable, but it tends to open up a vacancy.

I interviewed the author earlier this week, the first leg on her book tour for Table for One, her second novel. Having been a fan of Emma’s work for the best part of a decade, I noticed an intriguing parallel between Table for One and Emma’s debut novel, Olive: both begin with the protagonist navigating a significant breakup in her thirties. A parallel made even more intriguing because Emma has been in her relationship, now her marriage, ever since her early thirties. Why this preoccupation?

Emma told me – and the 100+ lovely audience members that came to the event – that writing her characters is a way to ‘try on’ other versions of her life: ‘In a way, every character is me.’ A break-up, as Emma depicts so compellingly, can be a drastic force for change. Writing her character, Willow, has taught her to be bolder, to take life into her own hands. To take driving lessons again (this answer made us laugh – because Emma meant it literally, yet we were all aware of what an apt metaphor this was).

For Willow, too, the void is a window; and eventually a force for courage and change. We can all take inspiration from that, both in fiction and in real life.

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It was the pistachio tiramisu matcha latte that did it. A phrase I would have attributed to a random word generator, if not for the concrete fact of the pavement sign standing before me.

‘I have measured out my life in coffee spoons,’ lamented T.S Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock, of the daily monotonies that underpinned his existence. Not that it’s a competition but, over a century on, life as a modern urbanite feels bleaker still: I can’t even work out which coffee I want in the first place.

On its website, Starbucks boasts 87,000 different drink combinations. While Starbucks pioneered this mania, its disciples – Blank Street, Black Sheep Coffee et al – are likely to have even more options, thanks to their endless capacity for creative bastardisation (rumour has it, babe, you’re no one unless you’re sipping a cherry cold brew latte this spring).

It isn’t just coffee. Take, for instance, the rise and rise of trademarked grapes. It seems like only yesterday we were choosing between white, red, or white and red. Now, a trip to your local M&S Food involves an existential dilemma while you weigh up speciality varieties including Tutti Frutti®, Cotton Candy®, Muscat® and Sable Seedless® (call me a pleb, but I still prefer white).

Meanwhile, your days slip away from you, measured out in the hours you spend contemplating an item on Vinted, deciding where to book for dinner on Friday night, and/or swiping your capacity for love away on a dating app.

Why face one massive decision, when there are so many tiny, low-stakes ones to busy yourself with? Millions of them, in fact: micro-decisions, concerning what to eat, drink, listen to, wear, etc – almost as if they’ve popped up to relieve you of the pressure to make the big ones. And because those choices are being marketed to you as important and urgent – by Starbucks, or Sweaty Betty, or Spotify – you may well get to them sooner. Sure, you haven’t decided whether or not you want kids – yet your brain latches on to that ‘What podcast shall I listen to?’ dilemma like a Golden Retriever might a manky tennis ball, all the while letting the truly consequential stuff fall to the wayside.

Somewhere deep down, you know it’s all a distraction tactic. You fear making the wrong decisions, and then having to live with the consequences. Even microcosmically, this is no small matter: you’re in real danger of buying a £4.70 beverage so hideous it makes you weep a little with each premium sip. How might that extrapolate out to marrying the wrong person, buying the wrong flat, leaving the right job? Better stick with the small decisions, you tell yourself –

The trouble is, that’s the more dangerous option.

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We’ve all heard the crazy ex-girlfriend trope. The obsessive, unpredictable, stalker type; a cross between Baby Reindeer and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

I think I speak for many women of my generation, and those who came before, when I say that I live in fear of being that crazy ex. The person who put myself forward inappropriately. The one who suggested the mini-break first, or brought up the c-word (commitment), or bought a Border Terrier out of the blue. The most ‘crazy’ thing I’ve ever done was mailing someone a David Bowie wall calendar (there was context, albeit tenuous). It didn’t go down well.

Last weekend, I had a conversation which made me think again. I was at a local pub over the bank holiday weekend, where my friend and I got chatting to the staff: a man and woman, both in their early twenties. For some reason, conversation turned to Bartender Man’s love life. Which is when he told me about Two Cupcake Woman.

He had two women on the scene: Woman A, and Woman B. It had all been plain sailing for a while, but when he decided to tell Woman B about Woman A, disaster struck. Woman B was not happy with the existing set-up. At some point, he was going to have to make a choice between them (apparently not all of Gen Z are polyamorous).

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The pendulum of Bartender Man’s affections had swung, as of late, towards Woman A… that is, until he received a surprise package on his doorstep. It was a cardboard box containing two cupcakes. Nestled up against the piped frosting, there was a printed message. It read: ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it.’

Uh oh, I thought – knowing what came next. Poor Woman B. She’s become the Crazy Ex!

But then, the youth concluded: ‘…I thought it was really cool, and now I’m really into her.’

‘Wait, who?’

‘The one who sent me the cupcakes.’

I was mind-blown. He went on to explain how confident and cool it made her seem, that she went to all that effort to orchestrate it. How it put Woman B/Two Cupcake Woman top of the two-woman leaderboard. All because she put herself out there.

It made me think of a modern phenomenon I find fascinating: the sending of unsolicited dick pics.

Every time I hesitate to, say, tell a date I’d like to see them again; or send a professional email putting myself forward for something I’m more than qualified for; or speak my mind in a terse conversation; or enter a writing competition; I remind myself of one simple fact: someone, somewhere, is sending out a close-up of their genitals, entirely unprompted. Presumably, in the hope that the recipient might respond encouragingly in the manner of, ‘I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby!’

What I’m trying to say is: I want just one per cent of that chutzpah.

To clarify, this isn’t a defence of unsolicited dick pics, or indeed the feminine equivalent (not least because cyberflashing has been categorised as an actual crime). Nor am I endorsing delusional self-belief.

It’s simply to say that… there’s a merit in reaching, fearlessly, for what you want, without holding back for fear that you’re not worthy of it. To paraphrase Esther Perel, desire is a form of self-worth. Self-rejection is the opposite.

There’s something heroic about putting yourself out there, even in the rawest and most vulnerable of ways, in the hope it might be rewarded.

And if you fail? Well, at least you tried.

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I had dinner at my friend B’s flat last weekend.

We (/he) cooked a Sunday roast*: tarragon-infused chicken, roast potatoes, sage & onion stuffing, a medley of underrated but perfectly-cooked vegetables (Swede and parsnips at long last getting the attention they deserve). And in the two plus hours it took to do all this, we had a long, no-holds-barred conversation about dating and B’s most recent relationship, which ended just over a year ago.

Over a gravy-laden feast, and throughout a carb-induced coma, we unpacked, in granular detail, every juncture of the doomed romance: its rosy beginnings, its hairy middle and its dramatic conclusion. And as we did so, I noticed myself unexpectedly relating not to B, but his female ex. In identifying the stark differences between our behaviours, it was like we were enacting the 1992 self-help book, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, except it was the 2025 podcast edition.

*A side note for my international readers: think of a Sunday roast as the culinary compensation for being British, in the same way that Christmas is winter’s consolation prize.

For instance, we discussed the gendered conditioning that afflicts heterosexual relationships. I recognised, in B’s account of his ex, a mistake I’ve made in the past: of seeing my (inevitably taller, bigger) partners as invincible, stoic – rather than recognising them for the equally-vulnerable people that they are. We discussed the pressures, on men, too, to play into this dynamic. The social and cultural barriers that get in the way.

Beyond that, we discussed the mistakes we’d both made in the past. Abandoning and feeling abandoned. Failing to demonstrate appreciation. Getting caught up in life, and not giving someone attention. Conflicting love languages.

We’ve racked up a number of crimes between us, it seems. And yet, our conversation was free from blame. As two single people, navigating what might otherwise have been a lonely Sunday afternoon together, we were speaking as peers, side-by-side in the search for romantic love.

Advice, dispensed sparingly, was delivered on an equal footing on behalf of the opposite sex, rather than downwards from the pedestal of Relationship Land (I’m fully-aware there are all sorts of relationships, and few coupled-up people actually feel superior – but there is a broad societal hierarchy that can feel pervasive).

Talking to B, I felt safe, and oddly hopeful.

It’s relevant to add, at this point, that B is a catch. His chief crime is the same as mine: being human. More specifically, a human with feelings, trying to navigate the messy world of dating, digital ambiguity and finding your Person while simultaneously being a person.

The afternoon rolled into the evening. We watched the sunset turn pink over Mile End, stomachs fuller and souls lighter; the ghosts of the past exorcised for another day.

As I sat on the Tube home, I felt newly compassionate – both for B, and for myself. It even made me feel compassion for my most recent ex. Which is a shame, because I’d rather hoped to stay petty and vindictive.

B and I are not bad people. Nor are we – despite our romantic disappointments – deeply, inherently unloveable (there is, in fact, no direct correlation between the man ghosting you on WhatsApp and the traumatic time your mother denied you a mint-chocolate Magnum, but it takes an inconvenient amount of therapy to disentangle the two).

Sure, we have our foibles. At least, I certainly do. But we – and I suppose I’m talking about single people en masse at this point – are normal people. Getting some stuff wrong – yes – but more or less doing our best, and hoping someone, someday, will regard the wrong turnings in the same pink-hued light that descended over east London last Sunday.

The same questions still percolate. Should we have acted differently in the past? Would that have made all the difference, in making it last? Or were our relationships doomed from the start , and acting differently might have only perpetuated something not built to last?

I don’t know. No one knows. Least of all those lucky enough to have found, and held on to, lasting romantic relationships – who, equally, have their flaws, and yet it somehow, senselessly, works.

But in the meantime, we hope. We hold each other. And we hope, often against hope, that what’s meant for us will find us. That the right thing will last.

Finally, some things that brought me joy this week, including the aforementioned roast dinner:

Until next week!

Francesca

There’s a trend I’ve spotted in publishing, and suddenly I’m seeing it everywhere. From Booker and Women’s Prize nominated Yael van der Wouden’s The Safekeep and Silvia Saunders’ Homesick to Róisín Lanigan’s I Want To Go Home But I'm Already There, literature in 2025 is tackling the question: What makes a home?

The reason I’m inordinately savvy about this current publishing zeitgeist? Well, as it happens, I just finished a novel manuscript exploring a similar question. My main character and I have learnt some important lessons over the past two years.

Let me explain. The most obvious image that comes to mind, when we think of home, is a physical space: the house with a pitched roof (think 🏠) that almost none of my contemporaries live in in London. A non-slip doormat or an IKEA Billy bookcase. The glossy influencer you follow on Instagram. But that’s little more than symbolic cultural shorthand.

Home is a feeling, as well as a physical reality: the lock in the door you turn your keys in every day; the pillow you put your pyjamas underneath; the cup you place your toothbrush in. Etymologically, ‘home’ comes from root words like: ‘dwelling’, ‘to lie down and settle’, ‘family’, ‘to be at rest’, ‘fixed residence’. Our emotional experience of home is just as inherent to its definition as its physical form.

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This newsletter will be a short one. I’m writing this in mid-afternoon, Mexican time, at a villa-style boutique hotel in the beach town of Puerto Escondido – Mexico’s answer to Bali. In a couple of hours I’ll be in my happy place: watching the sunset at the ocean with friends I’ve met travelling, a chilled supermarket beer (my preferred Mexican brand is Victoria) in tow. We did the same thing yesterday, and as the sun slipped finally over the horizon, everyone began clapping – as if we were at the finale of a theatre performance. You did it again, sun. Bravo.

After the cacophonous chaos of Mexico City last week, it’s been a welcome change of pace. There’s a palm tree swaying directly in front of me, slow jazz playing in the background (the all-day, everyday soundtrack at this hotel), and in truth I’m finding it hard to accelerate. Here, the breakneck speed of London life feels senseless. As does the whirlwind of last week in Mexico City, where I spent my days rushing from my morning Spanish lessons to museum to dinner. I am happily-institutionalised to beach life.

Seize the day. It’s an impulse you feel twofold on holiday, when you’re paying however much a night to stay somewhere that’s not your home. That’s true whether you’ve flown two or 12 hours to be in that place. You’re acutely aware you have to make the most of it.

And yet my plan for the rest of my trip is, more or less, to do nothing. Less ‘seize the day’, more luxuriate in the right now. Drunk on the feeling of sun on bare skin, the not-knowing-what-time-it-is, the contentedness in remaining within a half-mile radius for the next three and a bit days.

It’s another respect in which this is a welcome contrast to Mexico City: the lack of anything to ‘tick off’ my list. I loved Mexico City, and yet it possessed an inconvenient amount of must-see places: architectural hotspots like Casa Luis Barragan, artistic must-sees like Frida Kahlo’s house; vibrant markets where you can buy everything from a traditional Tetuanan dress to a raw chicken; incredible greenery like the magical forest of Chapultepec; and the surprise joy that was a freestyle Mexican wrestling (Lucha Libre) night. Eventually, I had to make a deal with myself that I’d return someday for my extensive ‘B-list’ of places.

Oaxaca, the magical city I visited afterwards, was the same: the most astounding botanical gardens, full of giant cacti and agave plants; yet more architectural delights and even better street food than Mexico City. And so I made the same deal with myself: I’ll be back, I reassured myself, as I sat in a cafe drinking Oaxacan chocolate con aqua (a very strong hot chocolate) – resolving to enjoy it, not rush off to one of the city’s too-many, too-fabulous museums and galleries, of which I visited precisely one.

Here, there’s no such rush. Over the next few days, I’ll be processing all the wonderful things I’ve experienced during my time in Mexico City and Oaxaca – letting my subconscious take over while I rest. Soon, I’ll be on the beach, clapping as the sun goes down, witnessing something that is in no way extraordinary and yet, at the same time, extraordinary. Doing nothing, and yet – in that quietness – feeling everything.

The other day, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Not literally; as it happens, I’m a stationary sleeper, and the bulk of my king-size mattress is wasted on me. Figuratively, though, everything felt wrong from the moment I woke up, a wrongness compounded by the sudden absence of my favourite mug (reader, I found it a full 12 hours later in the microwave, but also, it wasn’t about the mug). The reality was: I had woken up unfathomably furious.

Anger is not a look I wear often. The staples in my emotional wardrobe are joy, curiosity, sadness, anxiety and stress, worn on rotation throughout the week. As a 5’2” female (read: not exactly physically-imposing), I’ve always felt, instinctively, that red is not my colour.

And yet, the weird thing was that I didn’t hate it. OK, it became quickly apparent I should limit contact with other people for the rest of the day. My anger lay precariously close to the surface, like one of those big red baboon butts. But, when I paid attention to the triggers for my anger – a carelessly flaked-upon social plan, an unrealistic (actually, impossible) professional demand, the satsuma-faced chauvinist who might soon resume premiership over the Land of the Free – I thought, you know what? Kudos to me. That is enough to get angry about.

In my self-imposed time out, I journaled on that anger. I realised it taught me a lot about my values. The world wasn’t against me (of course it wasn’t that black and white). But nevertheless, the rage stirring inside me correlated with qualities I inherently hold to be important, like communication, reliability and respect.

It presented an invitation to act. When defaulting to sadness or anxiety, I turn in on myself, for better (yoga; meditation; cathartic crying) or for worse (bizarre food choices; the bitten skin around my nails; my literal wardrobe strewn around my bedroom). Whereas, the anger was something I wanted to channel through outward-facing action.

Anger gave me a cut-throat clarity. When a plan for the next day got changed at the last minute to be less convenient for me, I just pulled out. When someone made a potentially-sexist joke, I didn’t laugh it off – I challenged them on it. This didn’t manifest itself as rage so much as cool-headed directness. But it was fuelled by a fire inside me, a refusal to dismiss my own feelings in favour of keeping the peace.

Anger is active, which differentiates it from other negative emotions like shame, guilt, sadness and anxiety. Anger creates a sense of urgency, a forward momentum that says the world has to change to accommodate you, rather than you changing to accommodate it.

In Toni Morrison’s novel The Bluest Eye, her protagonist Pecola Breedlove tells herself:

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Four years ago, I sat down at my kitchen table, poured myself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and ate a home-cooked steak dinner. I was celebrating the book deal I’d secured to write Alonement, a memoir meets manual championing the joy of time spent alone. Granted, this was lockdown and I was a household-of-one, so I didn’t have the option of company – but it was nonetheless a particularly fitting way to mark the moment.

Earlier this week, while standing at the platform at my local Tube station, I saw a lookalike scene reflected in the billboard ahead of me. In the Saatchi & Saatchi-designed advertising campaign, launched to promote Waitrose & Partners’ No.1 campaign, a brunette woman enjoys a candlelit steak and wine dinner at a table set for one. ‘No. 1 always comes first’, reads the slogan, while the product promoted – the No.1 Wagyu Sirloin Steak – is a rare example of a supermarket cut of meat, or indeed a cut of anything, sold in a single portion.

I’d never seen anything like this campaign. Racking my brain for a comparison, all I came up with was the 2008 Galaxy advert, where a lone woman in a darkened room nibbles at a chocolate bar – a bar she’s hidden in a box somewhere, so that her cohabitants can’t eat it. The messaging, at least for me, was that enjoying food was something that had to be done covertly, a stolen moment in the dead of night. ‘Think hiding it, think Galaxy’ – goes the slogan.

A very different aesthetic, then, to see a woman eating a meal alone, aware that others are watching but invested in her own pleasure. Better still, it’s not a foil-wrapped ‘treat’, but a home-cooked, balanced meal she’s put time and effort in preparing just for her (and yes, an elevated ready meal is allowed to count here). That’s a powerful thing to normalise. Especially for women, who – even in the 21st century – still end up doing the bulk of household cooking, when living with others.

In the time since I published Alonement, solo travel has boomed – as has solo dining at restaurants, according to the most recent figures from OpenTable (I covered this rise for The Independent earlier this year). And I’m glad that travel operators and restaurants have catered for this shift. But these are one-off, or infrequent, experiences, and expensive ones at that.

For that reason, this is a new frontier. Because cooking for one (and yes, preparing a premium ready meal does count) is radical in a different way. It’s more readily accessible – both financially and logistically – than a meal out or a holiday. If you subscribe to the Stoic philosophy that we are the sum are what we repeatedly do (and I do), then preparing and enjoying a meal for one is an effective love letter to oneself.

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I’m writing this week’s newsletter on the plane journey home from an annual holiday with two of my closest friends. This year, we went to Biarritz, followed by San Sebastián. We’ve been doing these trips for so many years that we’ve lost track – since we were all at school. There’s a comfort in knowing that, however busy we are, this is a time when we come together. 

We do this on a smaller scale every month, over dinner at one of our respective homes. The host almost always cooks, we often but not always have wine, and someone brings some variation of ‘berries and chocolate for dessert’. It’s purposefully simple – because, if it weren’t, it wouldn’t be easily repeatable. And repetition is the point. 

Because it’s thanks to these rituals that we connect on a regular basis throughout the year. It’s what marriage researcher and therapist John Gottman calls a ritual of connection: everyday activities or traditions you share that reinforce your bond. A ritual, in that it is a series of actions or words performed in a regular way (the Cambridge University Dictionary definition), of connection in that it’s meant to make you feel closer to one another by virtue of performing it. 

While rituals of connection is a term Gottman uses in his (romantic) relationships advice, it’s equally applicable to relationships in a broader sense. We can see it in pop culture, even: in the innumerable Central Perk coffee gatherings on the sitcom Friends (cue the age-old question of ‘When do they even work…?) or the non-negotiable Friday night dinners at Richard and Emily Gilmore’s in Gilmore Girls, where Rory bonds with her grandparents. 

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Hola – and happy new year! How’s 2024 treating you so far?

I’m back from my yoga retreat. Six days of doing the downward dog (or perro boca abajo) in southern Spain, interspersed with thrice-daily delicious vegetarian meals was, it transpired, the best investment I made in myself all year, and I’d highly recommend anyone considering a yoga retreat to do the same. The centre I visited was Suryalila, near Cadiz – some visuals below.

First off, let’s get through a mini list of FAQs…

Are you feeling super smug? A full week later: yes. Yes I am.

How much yoga did it involve? Around 90 minutes of vinyasa–style yoga (i.e. energetic, faster-paced), and 75 minutes of yin, daily. Plus, sound-healing, life-coaching and a one-off permaculture farming tour around the grounds (takeaway: rosemary is a hardy herb, even in droughty Spanish climes).

What was the group like? There were 32 of us from a diverse range of ages, nationalities and life stages (predominantly 30+, with a large number of people in their fifties and sixties, although it was hard to tell because – I’m convinced – yoga is the anti-ageing hack that would put L’Oréal out of business). 

Are you vegetarian now? I inhaled a plate of jamón upon arrival in Seville, shared with four other members of the retreat. However, I then got home and cooked a bumper batch of Nigella’s vegan bolognese – so let’s say my flexitarianism (general preference for cooking vegetarian/plant-based meals at home) has been reinforced. I’ve also just discovered that Suryalila has published its recipe for walnut bolognese – one of my favourite meals while I was there – online, so that’s next on my list.

Anyway, I want to tell you about another activity that we did – when we weren’t bathing in the sound of gongs, or contorting ourselves into human pretzels – which was a cacao ceremony. 

The three-hour-long process involved sharing a drink made from 100% pure cacao bean (think: bitter hot chocolate) followed by a series of exercises (meditation, movement, group sharing) that, for reasons I can’t necessarily articulate, moved most of us, myself included, to tears. 

During the latter part of this exercise – the group work – a fellow guest spoke candidly about his struggle with certain aspects of the yoga practice. Then, he said something which has stuck with me more than anything else from the whole weekend. 

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When it comes to cancelled plans, we typically fall into one of two tribes. For the first, a text beginning ‘So sorry but I’m going to have to cancel…’ resembles an early Christmas present: guilt-free time! Freedom! So many wondrous possibilities! You could moonwalk around your flat naked; binge-watch the entirety of The Morning Show; file your tax return early and then have a white chocolate Magnum! Any number of euphoric highs might ensue, and all in the sweet, sweet knowledge that you are categorically Not To Blame.

For the other tribe? It ruins their weekend.

When I first started writing this piece, I assumed this was something of an overgeneralisation. But, after discussing ‘flaking’, as it’s come to be known since the Noughties, I was freshly surprised by how divisive this issue has become.

A colloquialism popularised by our north American cousins, flaking is defined as ‘fail[ing] to keep an appointment or fulfil a commitment, especially with little or no advance notice.’ Which, for some, is an understandable, everyday phenomenon, while others (the chronic flak-ees, perhaps) find it much trickier to justify.

‘No worries, let’s reschedule!’

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